


lumière

by simplemelodies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Chef Tomlinson, Daddy Kink, M/M, but lots of talk about rimming, if you squint real hard, like a little bit of it, no bumfuckery though!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1876293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplemelodies/pseuds/simplemelodies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Restaurants are familiar to Harry, like his childhood bedroom or the soft humming sounds Louis makes when he’s got his head smothered in Harry’s arse cheeks. </p>
            </blockquote>





	lumière

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunshiner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/gifts).



FEBRUARY

So maybe it wasn’t a good idea to go out tonight, but Harry is definitely one to argue with his gut feeling. Sometimes. Um, okay, only this once. But he’s _bored_ , and _lonely_ , and going out sounded so _nice_ when he was huddled on the couch with Drumstick-flavoured Edy’s. There’s only so much telly he can watch before his mind starts to go numb and he starts considering how long it would take Niall to find his body if he died of a sugar-induced coma. So he’d been contemplating heading to the club or opening himself up right there on the couch and coming to the thought of legs wrapped around his neck.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea, though. Because now that he’s at the club, he’s having trouble not coming on the spot to the thought of _this boy’s_ legs wrapped around his neck.

He’s got dark brown hair that’s quiffed just so, some fringe falling around his face and sticking up artfully in other places. His lips are quirked up into a smirk, his eyelids falling half-shut as he grinds back against the man behind him. Harry might have a heart attack. Then the man behind him, who’s got a hold on his hips like a vice, bends down to whisper something in the boy’s ear, making his entire face light up in a laugh. He bends forward with his arm clutching his belly from giggling so hard and Harry thinks he’s seen the sun explode. A smile stretches wide across his own face when he sees the boy’s eyes crinkle and Harry’s a bit (more like a lot) helpless now. 

Because see, before, Harry just wanted to choke on this boy’s cock, maybe not breathe for a moment while his face is buried in between his (perfect) arse cheeks. Now he wants to do that and maybe have dinner afterwards. 

He slowly makes his way over to the boy, who’s now started to sway his hips, giving up the grinding for a slower feel. Harry catches his eye, holds the gaze, then nods for him to join. Harry places his hands on the boy’s hips once he’s shimmied away from the other man, and everything about him is soft. Well. Maybe not everything. Something about all of this--the sweat and heat and lights--makes Harry a little dizzy. There’s a boy in front of him, who actually may be a little older now that he’s gotten a closer look, with fantastic legs and a fantastic smile, and Harry can’t seem to catch his breath. 

He needs to leave his alcohol alone for a while. 

All of a sudden, the boy in his arms is turning, mouthing at the skin of Harry’s neck and wrapping his arms around his waist. Harry wants to know his name, wants this boy to be his. And that’s just absurd, isn’t it? Harry came here to get laid, not whipped (well, at least not emotionally). But he finds himself shouting in his ear, “what’s your name?” 

And tries not to let his legs give on the spot when the boy shouts back, “you can call me Daddy.”

_Fuck._

X

OCTOBER

Meeting the crew isn’t supposed to be hard; he’s supposed to introduce himself, say hi to the waiters. The works. He’s not supposed to oggle the thighs of the head chef, or wonder about catching his fingers in his hair either. But he does it all, and hopes he’s really inconspicuous about the oggleing part. He really can’t lose this restaurant before he even has it. 

Harry really loves meeting new people. He lives for the greet and the smiles, thrives on making someone happy with his presence. Everyone is so different and beautiful; that's sort of why he wanted to make this purchase in the first place. He'd come in one night with Nick, something about discussing building plans and legal matters. The topic itself wasn't that difficult, but he really didn't want to be out that night. His hangover from the night before and the note saying "call me xx" on his bedside table next to a bottle of water and some paracetamol (what a gentleman, really) made him want to stay in all day. There was something nice about the memories of being dominated so thoroughly and cuddled so sweetly after. 

Mostly what he remembers are the colour of the boy’s--Louis, his name was Louis--eyes. Harry doesn’t like cliches but they definitely reminded him of twilight skies.

God, he needs a drink.

Anyway, he’d been in this place with Nick about eight months ago and completely fallen in love with it. The staff was beautiful and looked fully capable of handling anything. He’d only owned his father’s restaurants for a year and yet he knew this was a place he needed to invest in. Hell, he _wanted_ to invest in it.

Five months later he was contacting the owners, Lou and Tom, having gotten the funds and contracts in order. The Ship's Mast, as it was called, was discreetly on the market--the owners didn’t want anyone to know that it was changing hands due to the nature of the business--and Harry was the first in line, hoping his enthusiasm and preparation would work in his favour. Luckily it had, and it was only a short time before all the papers had been signed and Lou and Tom were saying their farewells and wishing the staff all the best.

Something stuck with him, though, and didn’t sit quite well. When he’d been signing the papers, with Lou and Tom and the lawyer present, Tom had given Harry a warning look. Accompanied with it were the words, “Be careful. It may be your restaurant, but it’s _his_ kitchen.”

No one ever said who “he” was. 

It seemed as if the staff had been working there for as long as the place was in the hands of the couple, and Harry wondered if that would be a problem. Normally when a restaurant like this switches owners, from Harry’s experience even before his father passed, the staff undergoes major cuts. Harry really didn’t want that to happen, seeing as the few people he’d had a chance to interact with genuinely loved this place and the job that they had. 

He hadn’t had a chance to meet any of the kitchen staff, hoping he could get that out of the way today. But thinking about the first time he was here and why he didn’t want to be here that day has him a little spacey in the head. _Especially_ after he catches a glimpse of the executive chef, who he learned stepped up from sous chef only a month ago when the old executive resigned. Apparently he hadn’t taken too well to the restaurant being sold. 

Anyway, Harry can’t stop thinking about that night now, or the fact that _the Louis_ is now his employee. And he definitely needs to figure out why there is a permanent scowl on his face. 

This should be fun.

X

Harry’s closing up his office one night when he hears the banging about it the kitchen. He’d decided to stay late to help Louis with books, seeing as it had been a busy shift and there was still paperwork and truck orders to be taken care of. At some point, Harry had sort of taken on the roll of co-executive chef, seeing as how he’d yet to hire a new (qualified) sous chef and left Louis (Chef Tomlinson, he was wanting to be called) to run kitchen _and_ run books. Chef Tomlinson wasn’t exactly too happy about it, saying that he could do it on his own and “what if you mess this up, Styles?” 

(At which point Harry had backed him against the metal counter and proceeded to suck Louis’s brains out through his dick, then walked out with a casual, “It’s my place to mess up, then, isn’t it, _Chef_?”)

When he steps out into the dining hall, the lights are dimmed and the chairs are put up, but there’s a racket coming from the prep area and he’s got a good idea who it might be. Muttering can be heard and the sounds of metal pans crashing onto a metal table echo through the establishment, making Harry cringe. It gets louder as he approaches the kitchen, catching a glimpse of caramel hair darting around the corner into the prep room. 

He finds Louis rinsing out the final pans, placing a few in the draining basin only to turn around and start scrubbing every inch of the prep tables, completely unaware of his boss’ presence. That’s when Harry clears his throat, making Louis jerk his head around to find the source of the noise. 

“Jesus, what are you trying to do to me?” he says, still straining his arm to reach the back wall. “Because I’m not sure killing me would be a great start to this lovely business venture.”

Harry’s caught himself staring at Louis’s bum bent low, so it takes a moment for him to realise he’s been asked a question. “Just wondering why you’re still here at two a.m., really. I’m sure there are better things to do with your Sunday nights.” Like sleeping. Or having mind-blowing orgasms.

Really, Louis needs to sort out his priorities.

Louis grunts, and Harry has got to get a grip. “I just--don’t like--mess.”

Harry can’t hold back the smirk from his face when he says, “Is that what you were thinking when you came on my face last weekend?”

“Not the time, Harold. Please.” There’s a pause, filled only by the sound of a scouring pad rubbing against the table legs. It’s been all day since Harry’s come into the prep area. As soon as the dinner guests arrived, the place was packed, leaving Harry to help host and arrange tables. When he’d left the kitchen for the last time--before the doors even opened for the night--the place had been a wreck. An organised wreck, but sort of chaotic. There were skillets piled high and serving trays stacked with different appetisers scattered around the place (tonight, being a Thursday in early June, was looking to be the busiest night of the past few months). Now that Harry looks at the tables and counters, he notices that it’s become a lot more, like, shiny. Scrubbed clean.

Harry breathes deep, taking in the sharp smell of cleaning supplies and the slow ticking and whirring of the kitchen equipment. This place is becoming home for him, maybe. He’s had a hard time of it since Robin passed and Anne decided she wouldn’t like to run all four restaurants, giving them to Harry. Before Robin died (which is something he doesn’t like to think about, let alone face every day when he checks up on the old stores) he’d trained Harry to keep books, made him wait tables for his own wages. 

Restaurants are familiar to Harry, like his childhood bedroom or the soft humming sounds Louis makes when he’s got his head smothered in Harry’s arse cheeks. 

Speaking of Louis, he’s still got his whole body angled down to clean the bottom shelf, breathing only a little laboured due to the tight space. He’s changed into street clothes--trackies and a soft-looking dark gray tee--and Harry wants to cuddle him. Or ruin him. (He can never actually decide. On the one hand Louis’s snark and sass and overall rebellion make Harry want to fall to his knees and please, but on the other, Louis is all soft curves and sweet smiles and sunshine and Harry just wants to make Louis happy forever. Basically Louis is it.)

Harry inwardly curses himself for letting him care so much about this boy and begins gathering the sanitizer buckets from their places along the tables to clean out for the night.

X

On Sundays he likes to huddle under covers for a good hour before he’s meant to actually be awake, so Harry will set the alarm for seven a.m. and burrow into the heated blanket just to wake up properly. From then he’ll check his phone, his emails, his social media, until it’s approaching eight o’clock and he has to crawl out of bed to get ready for dinner prep at the Mast. It’s not really a lot of work—Niall just sits around tossing jokes and puppy-dog smiles while Zayn and Perrie set up placements and Louis and Harry work on the pre-orders. Sundays are fun and relaxed and reservation-only.

They’re also hell. Apparently on this particular Sunday, someone decided Harry was going to wake up late and stumble through the kitchen doors forty-five minutes past his scheduled time and right into a cursing Louis Tomlinson, Executive Chef.

Really, that’s what he was saying.

“The goddamn _head chef_ , Harold! And you’re not here to back me up because you’d rather sleep in!” He’s fuming and Harry can hear the others in the dining room trying not to be heard. 

The light overhead is flickering and a pot crashes to the ground. “My alarm—”

“I don’t give a shit about your alarm!” Louis shouts. “We have work to do, and I just had to chop seventy-five carrots on my own. Niall didn’t show up, and now here you are _in your pyjamas_ what kind of establishment are you running?” He fists his hands at his sides. The fringe of his hair is hanging down over the deep v in his forehead, and his chest is heaving. Harry is probably in love. “Get the fucking onions and do your damn job.”

Ten minutes go by in relative silence. Harry thinks Louis looks really damn hot when he’s mad, wouldn’t mind making him angry again just to see his nostrils flare. Maybe if he misbehaved enough—

No. Nope, he’s not going to go there.

He can hear Louis humming softly on the other side of the prep table, just loud enough for Harry to make out the tune. His heart skips when he realizes it’s an old Floyd song; fuck, he’s screwed if Louis keeps doing that.

He hums along with him, anyway, and if Louis notices, he doesn’t make a sound about it only to slip into a harmony that has Harry’s knees almost buckling. Louis can _sing_ and okay Harry knew that but now it’s just humming and a soft little lilt to the end of every verse.

He needs out. “Zayn!” His word echoes off the equipment and around the back of the building, only to end when Zayn crashes through the swinging doors (a little too fast, if you ask Harry. Zayn was never that great at eavesdropping). “Hey, can you take over for Louis and me for just a moment? I need to speak with him.”

Louis shows signs of protest, but cuts off pretty quick when he sees the look plastered across Harry’s face. Zayn just nods after casting a look between the two, then takes his place where Louis was standing. “I was just blending the seasoning,” he tells him, “but Harry was chopping onions if you don’t want to do that.” Translation: don’t touch the seasoning.

He thinks the songs have it wrong when they talk about the world being a cold place. Unrequited love isn’t ice and bare trees and endless winter. It’s the sun glowing hot on his shoulders, sand under his toes. Unrequited love doesn’t make it snow in his heart or his will waste away with the warmth. Actually, it does quite the opposite, because every time he stamps through the back door of the restaurant, every time he glances in the direction of a laughing head chef, he’s hit with sunshine.

It’s early November and Harry is burning up in his tee and jeans because the sun just spoke to him.

Vaguely something registers like he shouldn’t be falling for his goddamn employee of all people. He’ll get in trouble for it, could lose the restaurant, but at what reward? His boy would be out of a job, torn from the place he loved. The place he knows.

 _His boy_. Jesus, when did Harry get so sentimental? Yeah, okay, so he kept the old restaurant, and he bought the Mast like Robin would have wanted, but that’s family. That’s different.

When they’re in the back alley, Louis has to clear his throat to get Harry’s attention again. Harry’s stricken then, like his attention would be anywhere other than the ice chip eyes and worried tilt of his mouth.

“Right,” he says, and has to stop himself from reaching out because _this shouldn’t happen not now, not today_. “We should really talk.”

“We—we should.”

Louis looks indignant and pouty and ready to stalk back into the restaurant any second, so Harry blurts out, “You listen to Pink Floyd,” and stares at Louis with wide eyes and a deflating bravado.

He’s scared, really, to talk to Louis alone, and he’s terrified of what might come of it. Louis is just so—so confident and assertive and sometimes he’s a little cuddly and Harry is so fucking done with all of this. “Of course I listen to Pink Floyd; I don’t live under a rock.” And, okay, Harry’s had it up to here with that attitude and that goddamn smirk and folded arms so he steps forward, crowding up to Louis until his back connects with the railing on the side of the loading dock.

“I am your boss,” he says, “and I will not have you undermining me and treating me like I know less about this business than you do.” His heart is beating fast and Louis looks unimpressed, pushing his folded arms against Harry’s chest enough for him to back off.

Once Harry’s stepped back, Louis unfolds his arms and places his hands on Harry’s forearms. His fingers are pressed into the uncovered skin, his thumbs digging in the soft inner elbows, and Harry’s breath is catching. He’s being spun and pressed back against the railing, Louis flush against his chest now, and he can’t breathe properly anymore.

“You are my boss,” he’s being told, but can’t really focus on anything other than the way Louis’s hair has fallen against his forehead and his jumper collar has slipped almost off his shoulder. “You are my boss, but _I_ run the kitchen.” Harry really wants his lips to connect with that collarbone. “You will do as I say, _when I say_ ,” and, fuck, Harry is gone. He can’t really do anything but nod and go lax and focus on feeling Louis’s tummy rise and fall and reverberate with every word he’s saying.

He can’t help it when it slips out. It’s not his fault, honestly.

“Yes, _Daddy_.”

Louis blinks, his pupils visibly dilating, and _there_ his nostrils flare and Harry wants to smirk but can’t. He can’t because Louis pushes himself against Harry’s hardening dick and that’s _not okay not okay definitely okay_. Louis smells like focus and sex and maybe syrup.

He’s not being good. Being good is listening to Louis and letting him take control. Harry doesn’t give up control that easily but he feels guilty and small just saying no to Louis. Almost like looking in his eyes and defying him is _disobedience_ and why does that make Harry as hard as it does?

He gets hard sometimes thinking about the way Louis’s hips moved that night in the club, like they were made to bounce on his cock. Like Harry could drive into him and Louis would just _take it_ and be fucking ecstatic about it. He thinks about Louis’s lips parted as he fucks himself down on Harry’s dick and how his hair would plaster to the front of his head with sweat. Imagines the high gasps and low moan he’d get once Louis let himself come, over-sensitive but still riding Harry until he was spent.

His dick twitches in his jeans. He’s sure Louis feels it because he presses all that much more against him, pinning him to the railing with his arms on either side of Harry. Louis’s hard, too, so it’s not so bad. It sends a thrill down his spine to know that he’s not the only one affected by the way the word slips out of his mouth. He’s not doing what he’s been told, not complying to the rules, and that’s makes Louis upset.

Harry knows not to make Daddy upset.

Feeling like he needs to make someone happy isn’t new, but feeling like he needs to make Louis happy and content is an entirely different concept. 

There’s an echo in the back alley on most days, but today it’s still and quiet as Louis ruts slowly against Harry; the only thing Harry can hear are the breathy words coming out of Louis mouth (like _me_ and _listen_ and _mine_ ) and the _scritch_ of fabric sliding together.

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t listen to me,” he hears Louis say then. His breath is coming out in short puffs and his words are clipped and laboured and Harry thinks he could die from this. “You’re always such a good boy.” Harry wants to weep, and his knees buckle a little when he hears Louis scolding him because he knows he maybe deserves this but.

“I just-- _ah_ \--wanted to help.” Harry cants his hips up but Louis lets go of him suddenly, stepping back. He’s got his hands on Harry’s hips, keeping him in place, and he’s staring into Harry like he can’t wait to rip him apart. Harry hopes he does. 

Louis’s grip tightens on him. “You wanted to help _what_?”

“I wanted to help, _Daddy_.” Harry huffs out a breath when Louis pulls their bodies flush together, pressing the hard line of his cock into Harry’s leg.

He whispers, “You can help me by not being late next time,” and pushes himself away without another word, returning to the kitchen. 

Harry tries not to whimper at his retreating back. 

X

Later, when Louis’s fading into sleep from a long night (and probably the best orgasm of his life if Harry has anything to say about it), Harry has to fist his hands in the comforter covering their bodies to keep from saying something like _you’re it for me_ or _I saw the sun today and thought it would never be as bright as you_ or _I love you_.

He feels heavy, like his lungs press on his legs, like they’re filled with water or apprehension or something. He’s scared, and that’s all there is to it. He needs to get out of this place with the boy with skies for eyes and cinnamon swirl for hair. 

X

Harry likes to hum along to music, or sing along to it, or bop along to it, or dance along to it. He pretty much just likes to, like, be in the general vicinity of any kind of music. He plays it in the car, in the shower. In year nine he even convinced Robin to set up a speaker system around the pool. 

He especially loves to play music during prep work at the Mast. Normally it’s something mellow and quiet--mostly classical, if Niall will let him get away with it. Tonight, though, he blasts Radio 1 through the speakers from the office, singing loudly along to pop songs that are really quite loud. No one bothers to tell him to turn it down, though, which is a testament to the mood of the night. It’s Friday and there aren’t too many reservations, only enough to fill the front room. There are a couple of private tables booked, mostly plans for proposal and different celebrities trying to have a nice chat over dinner with a friend. 

Niall and Zayn are readying for the first arrivals, setting up glasses and pulling out the house wines, filling water pitchers and folding napkins. Perrie and Liam are in the prep area, putting away portioned desserts that need refrigeration. Harry is watching Louis slice onions, belting out lyrics about not fucking with someone’s love. It’s a contentment in this place, something that settles over everyone at the end of the work week. Everyone is excited about the excitement of the weekend. Niall and Jesy are now arguing back and forth about placements, which is completely normal and funny, until he lets slip that _someone_ is going on a date with another _someone_.

Harry raises an eyebrow and glances at Leigh-Anne, whose face is beet red, and then moves his gaze to Jesy, who about has her hands around Niall’s throat. All at once, everyone is quiet, until Zayn whispers “ _finally_.” Like a dam’s been broken, the whole crew cackles, Harry throwing back his head and trying to catch his breath. Tonight’s a good night, he thinks. 

Once things have quietened down, and all that can be heard is the radio and Harry singing out to Katy Perry, he feels happy. He’s singing loud and smiling big and he doesn’t even register that someone has come up beside him until he’s being turned with a hand on his hip. Louis presses his lips to Harry’s, effectively shutting him up. When he breaks the kiss, he leans back out of Harry’s space and says, “I can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

Faintly, Harry hears the knife he was using to chop carrots clatter to the tabletop. He holds his breath for the punchline, for the “just kidding!” But nothing comes. He’s left standing there, wide-eyed and short of breath while Louis sparkles in front of him, eyes bright and hopeful. 

He thinks maybe he’s not been breathing for way too long to respond when Louis’s face falls and he starts to back away. So, as if his life was made of cliches and metaphors and all the parts of speech in the world, he grabs for Louis’s arm, pulls him close and kisses him like fire. 

Harry hears wolf-whistles (Niall) and an “aw!” (Perrie) and someone shouting to get a room (probably Zayn). He hears it all but really can only respond to the way Louis melts under him, like maybe he was waiting for confirmation, for Harry to say he wasn’t wrong. Like he was waiting for Harry. 

When he pulls back, the first thing he does is pepper Louis’s face with countless kisses, until Louis is squirming away from him and telling him to “please stop we have work to do”. The second thing he does is wrap his arms around Louis and whisper into his ear.

He does not say “you’re it for me” or “I looked at the sun today and thought it would never be as bright as you” or “I love you.” That comes with time and with long days off and with a lot more trust. He simply says, “me, too,” and Louis smiles bright. Like the sun or something. 

And, really, Harry needs new metaphors for this boy. Because _sunshine_ , really?

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD i've never wanted to finish a fic more than this. it's my baby, my little bird. IT'S 4K WHAT like that's a bit of a record or something? i loved this prompt so much and i'm so happy that i got it and i love restaurant aus (hint hint). also i really wanted to have my title be the entirety of bloodstream by ed sheeran but alas that would make quite a distracting title  
> basically i'd like to thank everyone and i'm supposed to be super anonymous in my notes but i really really really love my sugar baby for this and also stiles i owe him a lot so yeah that's it.  
> ALSO i rlly want to say to sunshiner: i am so sorry for all the cheesy parts of speech and the talk of sunshine buT HEY YOUR PSEUD. yeah you're pretty rad and i am so happy i got to write for you.
> 
> cheers!


End file.
